


Tentative Peace

by eustassya



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff(?), FrUK, Idk as you can tell my tagging sucks someone help me, M/M, Napoleonic Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:32:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3803746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eustassya/pseuds/eustassya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been almost a year into the Peace of Amiens, and nothing has blown up yet. All the can do is wait. Something really short that I wrote on a whim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tentative Peace

**Author's Note:**

> This is based during The Peace of Amiens, from 1802-1803 during the Napoleonic Wars. At that time, Britain and France signed a peace treaty, but both sides were getting annoyed at each other. France kept trying to expand his territory, and he refused to give England trade privileges. So that means if England wants to trade in France, he has to pay like super-high taxes. But France's complaints about England concern the terms of the treaty. He didn't press the issue too far though, because he needs time to recover. England know that though, and he doesn't need as much time, apparently. So in May 1803, England declared war on France again for no good reason but his long-term self interest.
> 
> I wrote this on a whim in like 2 hours, so it's really really short, sorrry about that.
> 
> Disclaimer : Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

It has been almost a year into the signed peace treaty, and nothing has blown up yet. The two nations are waiting, recovering from the past years if continuous war. Britain is exhausted, and so is France. They both need to rest. In the end, it's Francis who calls first, his voice staticky over the telephone, the French in his accent so warmly welcoming. " _Mon Angelterre_ , how about we have a chat at the park?" Of course, the answer is a seemingly reluctant yes. Both are tired of their governments ordering them around; even if they _are_ nations, they still have feelings. They agree to meet the next day.

Francis is there to meet him at the ferry dock, looking beautiful as ever, silky blonde hair flowing in the wind. At first glance, he seems like the war hasn't affected him at all. But when he gets closer, Arthur starts to notice some little things that are different about the neighboring country. Things like how his eyes are tinted a shade of light purple, as if all the bloodshed of the past years had tainted his sparkling clear blue. His posture is slightly awkward, and that is when Arthur notices the cast on his leg. But France can make anything look graceful, even limping on one leg could look like a dance. "Arthur." He glides over, embracing the shorter man, smiling. Stiffly, he returns the hug. "Francis."

" ... You look different."

"Of course I do, stupid frog."

Of course he looks different. He's looked in a mirror, after all. Heavy eye bags and a pale, sickly complexion, with his hair growing long and bangs hanging over his eyes, of course he looks _different_. In fact, 'different' doesn't even cut it. Plainly put, he looks terrible. It's just France's good manners - he hopes - that deters him from laughing at the state Britain's in. He sighs. "Let's go?"

The park lies by the Channel, a stretch of murky green, the water surface peaceful and flat. Small waves lap at the beach below, seagulls squawking overhead. It is peaceful, barely anyone around to disturb them " _Mon amour_ ," Francis murmurs, taking his hand and leading him to the edge of the small cliff. The rocky cliff face slopes down towards the sand, enough boulders and sharp edges to be dangerous for climbing, but gentle enough to slide down had it been smooth. They sit there for a while, legs hanging over the edge of the rock, silently gazing over the reflective surface of the water, towards the town of Dover. "They want to declare war again." Arthur sighs, his head resting on Francis' left shoulder. "We need more time." It is a period for rest, they both know, a moment of pause to take a breath. The peace is only the calm before the storm.

Overcast skies loom ahead as they look up at the sky across the channel, England's weather dreary as always. It feels like a warning, a foreboding feeling settling upon the land. The time will come, though, soon, they both know. War will again erupt in Europe, the entire continent thrown into a state of chaos. The air is filled with the scent of rain, the promise of a storm not far away. A child sits on the sand below, a bright yellow bird perched in his hand. He smiles, radiant and carefree, murmuring to the feathered creature. Suddenly, they feel so old. A light sea breeze gushes in, filled with the scent of salt and waves and driftwood. How long has it been since they'd last seen each other, like this, as equals and friends and maybe even something more? How long has it been since they'd not been trying to kill each other? Too long, too long.

A kite dangles by its string, caught in a tree, swaying in the wind. Joggers constantly pass by, still exercising even in the midst of this strained truce. Arthur's hand finds Francis'. It's cold, even though they're in the midst of spring. He smiles at France, tired and worried, but for now, the other nation is all he needs. Birds fly towards the mainland, away from the incoming storm, letting out calls of warning for each other to find shelter. Why couldn't all the countries be like that too? Human lust and greed, it was such a formidable enemy. The calamity of the world. The air had become slightly more humid, the cool wind from before ceasing to caress the land. Stagnant, like the gods were waiting. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the war to begin again. "Don't die on me in the war, Francis." A silent plea for him to be safe. "The same to you _mon cher_ , the same to you." Requited thoughts, for how were they to survive without each other?

"I'll miss you, bloody frog."

"You say that as if I am about to die!"

They laugh softly, tinkling giggles filling the heavy air.

" _Je te'aime, Grande-Bretagne._ "

"I love you too, France."

**Author's Note:**

> Mon Angelterre : my England  
> Mon amour : my love  
> Mon cher : my dear  
> Je te'aime : I love you  
> Grande-Bretagne : Great Britain
> 
> Great Britain, because that as what England was called at that time.
> 
> Credits to : Oreounicorn my tablemate for helping me read through it, www.historyworld.net for the background info on the wars, and my lovely computer and printer for putting up with all my bullshit. Hope you enjoyed this crap I wrote! Hasta la pasta, readers~


End file.
